There's Always Next Year

True Confession. I love Facebook. I love to be able to connect with friends, to type my happy birthday wishes instead of trying to remember to send a card, and to attempt to boost my book sales from time to time, not very successfully, I’m afraid. And I love hearing from friends around the world when I post my T-G column on Facebook each week. I got lots of reaction from the Unadulterated Triscuit column, and I keep expecting to get a box or two in the mail.

However, I’m having issues with Facebook because it allows my friends to post photos from Maine. This is the time of year when we make our annual pilgrimage to the ocean, where many Salvation Army friends gather for shared worship in the grove, nightly fun at the pier, and the welcoming sand and surf. But unfortunately, RJ’s Spraypark at the Kroc Center was the closest I got to water this week.

When we made the decision to forgo our Maine vacation this year, it made perfect sense. We really couldn’t afford the expense, and we were anticipating that our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, would only be a week or so old – definitely not the time to leave Ohio.

It turns out that due to her early arrival, E.H. is already six weeks old, so we could have gone to Maine.  And now I am being bombarded with reminders of what I’m missing by way of Facebook. Jealousy and Envy may be high on the list of sins, but I’m asking for absolution in advance for my wayward ways, at least for this week.

Feeling bad about staying home, I suggested our family try to replicate our Old Orchard Beach, Maine vacation right here in Ohio. Brilliant idea, right? The Despicable Me movies have traditionally been a good option for rainy days in Maine. Pop-Pop falls asleep halfway through the movie, and we all laugh at those pesky yet adorable Minions. So we went to see The Minion Movie together, just like Maine. Pop-Pop stayed awake this time, but Unkie fell asleep. Somebody has to – it’s tradition!

Maybe, I thought, we could go for a ride together and get lost like we usually do on our way to Two Lights. Or we could walk around Ashland in our bathing suits – NOT! I’m not even brave enough to wear my bathing suit at the spraypark.

Another favorite pastime of ours in Maine is eating fresh seafood after church, but when I suggested Long John Silvers for lunch, I was met with rolled eyes and groans. Really, Mom? I don’t dare mention lobster rolls, Pier Fries, or Lisa’s Pizza. But in honor of my annual Dairy Queen ‘date’ with a dear friend, we talked for about an hour on the phone and I did order a hot fudge sundae at our local DQ. Somehow,  it didn’t taste quite as good without Lauren.

I’ve always tried to look on the bright side of life, so realizing that I won’t have to spend two mortgage payments to rent a house for the week does my heart and my checkbook good. There won’t be any sand in my sandwich, and our lunch will be safe from the seagulls. No sunburn either. It is a terribly long ride from Ohio to Maine, and we always manage to experience at least an hour or two of bumper-to-bumper traffic – won’t miss that either.

Life as a Northeast Ohio sports fan teaches us that we can’t always get what we want in life. I am grateful for our memories of years gone by, and, jealousy aside, for the joy my friends are finding at the ocean. It wasn’t to be this summer and I’m OK with that. As for our family, we’ll take a page from the Cavs, the Indians, and the Browns: “There’s always next year.” Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next July we’ll be stuck in traffic on the road to the ocean, as the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday watch the minions on the DVD player. Can you say, “Be-do, be-do, be-do?” Can’t wait! 

Vacation Musings

Our annual pilgrimage to Maine usually brings an insight or two to my spirit, particularly as the ocean waves lap at my sandy feet, or I sit in awe on the rocky shores of the mighty Atlantic. Staring at the computer screen on a rainy morning, I'm searching for a sense of this year's beach revelation, but so far, only one emerges: some bodies are not ...meant for bikinis.

While I often sported a bikini in my pre-childbearing years, since babies came calling more than 30 years ago, I consigned the skimpy beachwear to the donation bin. A few days of people-watching on the sun-drenched beach makes me wish other people had done the same. Don't get me wrong -- I appreciate the varying sizes and shapes of bodies of all ages, but I could do with a little less skin.

Will my only gift from the sea be such a shallow revelation? Hopefully the next day or two will bring more substantive and inspiring images, but for now, my most influential life reminder of 2013 was gleaned from a side trip before the trek to Maine.

With only a bit of trepidation, Larry and I offered to take the lovely Madelyn Simone, age 3, with us as we journeyed to Maine, so we could spend a couple of days at the home of my mother in Tonawanda, New York. While there, we splashed in the pool with my sister's sons, ages 9 and 7, and planned an excursion with them to Fantasy Island, a family-oriented amusement park across the river from my hometown.

Madelyn's eyes were wide as saucers as we pulled the wagon through the park, eagerly climbing aboard every ride in Kiddieland. She wasn't keen on waiting her turn, but quickly got the hang of it as she watched the other kids at work. Her only major meltdown came when she wasn't allowed to ascend the hill of the giant roller coaster -- "I big enough, Nana."

Ah, the lessons to be learned at the amusement park, of cowardice and courage, of bravado, and of the persistent love of parents as they wave each time their child comes into sight on the merry-go-round's rotations.

But what struck me most at Fantasy Island had nothing to do with the thrill of the rides or the sweetness of cotton candy melting on my tongue. Instead, it was the reminder that because of Fantasy Island, my life changed forever. Why, you might ask? Did I kiss the love of my life in the Tunnel of Love? No, for as we watched the Wild West show outside the Golden Nugget Saloon, I remembered -- Fantasy Island was the reason I met the Salvation Army.

Here's the quick version. As a freshman, I took organ lessons from an accomplished high school musician in the hope that I could become the organist at my church someday. I loved the swelling notes that filled the sanctuary, and worked hard to master the pedal tones to accompany my more practiced hands on those early Bach preludes.

One spring day, my instructor told me of his summer job in the Golden Nugget at Fantasy Island, a first step on his career in music performance. As a result, he had a church job he couldn't keep and asked if I would be interested.

So at the breath-taking rate of $4.25 per week, I began to accompany the singing of that small congregation -- morning and evening. That was the beginning of the rest of the story, a story of great joy and sorrow that wound its way through camp, college and courtship, parked for a while in inner city Philadelphia and Cleveland, and ultimately brought me to Ashland.

In retrospect, these unexpected turns may take us by surprise, but their notes also set the course for the days and years ahead. Some call it luck, fate or happenstance, but I claim Evelyn Underhill's image instead. No coincidences -- instead, God's universe in the act of rhyming, with tones heard once again in the simple yet profound notes of the Bach prelude, the rhythmic splash of the ocean waves and the gentle laughter of my granddaughter -- enough insight for a lifetimeSee More

Like · · Promote · Share

These Boots are Made for Walking

We recently had the privilege of spending a week in Maine, and yes, as predicted, Madelyn and I played in the sand with our shovels and our bling-encrusted buckets.  However, I discovered that at age 2, she was most interested in moving sand from one place to another, not in building a sandcastle.  Maybe next year. 

We walked everywhere in that seaside town.  We walked to the beach, loaded down with beach chairs, umbrellas, towels and sunscreen, and we walked home from the beach, pulling the wagon up the hill.  We walked to the Seaside Pavilion for an encore performance of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  We walked to the corner store for milk, and we walked to the Pier in the evening, sampling the fries, the pizza, and a mouth-watering cheesesteak – thanks, Hoss and Mary.

By the time I got home, I was humming along with Nancy Sinatra, “These Boots are Made for Walking,” and anticipated a positive result when I stepped on the scale.  To my disappointment, the pizza and fries won out over the walking.  Well, it was vacation . . . 

So, fresh from the Maine shore, where everyone strolls around in bathing suits, I made the trek to the Kroc Center spraypark with Madelyn in her wagon, but I did feel rather self-conscious walking down East Liberty Street dressed for the beach.  However, once we arrived and donned our sun block, we fit right in among the kids and adults frolicking in the water.

I’ve walked to church, to the seminary, and to the store for a gallon of milk.  I’ve walked to mail a letter, to visit a friend, and to get an ice cream cone with the lovely Madelyn Simone.  I haven’t walked to the library yet, afraid that I’ll pick out too many books for the journey home, but it’s on my list – I’ll just have to remember to take a heavy-duty bag with me.

It’s strange to write about walking as an accomplishment, because as a child, that’s how we lived.  Often my dad worked out of town all week, arriving home on Friday evening, so with only one car, we were without transportation during the week.  But I don’t remember that being a problem.  If I wanted to go somewhere, I’d either walk or ride my bike.  Our car’s main function was to take my dad to work, not to serve as a taxi for the kids. 

 Now I don’t anticipate that I’ll be hiking the length of the Appalachian Trail anytime soon, but I think I could get used to this.  Walking gives me a chance to look at the houses of my neighbors, enjoying the landscaping and noting a home or two that could use some sprucing up.  I can pray as I walk, for the neighbors, for the kids who will soon be walking to school on this sidewalk, and for the postal carrier and meter reader who daily walk through my neighborhood.  I can touch the purple ribbons that still grace some of the trees on my street and remember.

One quiet evening last week, I slipped out of the house and walked over to the Kroc Center to visit the labyrinth.  This path, designed with an ancient pattern for walking, praying and remembering, is nestled in the far corner of the property, at the top of the hill under an ancient maple.  Its twists and turns force a slower pace, a rhythm just right for contemplation.  While a suggested pattern is to release, to receive (in the center) and to return, there’s no right or wrong way to walk the labyrinth.  The labyrinth welcomes our sorrow and our joy, our questions and our resolve.  I like that.

Whether at the labyrinth or on the streets of the neighborhood, Elizabeth von Armin understands: “Walking is the perfect way of moving if you want to see into the life of things. It is the one way of freedom. If you go to a place on anything but your own feet you are taken there too fast, and miss a thousand delicate joys that were waiting for you by the wayside.”  A walk, anyone?